


Between Log Books

by Beehiveth (orphan_account)



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Compilation, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-13
Updated: 2011-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-27 07:37:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Beehiveth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of ficlets based on collective head-canons, in which we see what each member of My Jet Now Air could do and does and Martin's log books won't tell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Suffocating

It’s 5 minutes until Gordon arrives home, smelling of smoke, alcohol, and cricket matches at the pub, and Arthur has already eaten his first slice of cake. The red 11 has nearly melted and there are splotches of wax around the rest of the cake, some on the little boy’s hair and at least the fingertip of his left pinky finger is already blistered and burnt from poking at it.

 

It takes 4 minutes for Gordon to yell at Carolyn for letting him stay up late, and giving him sugar right before bedtime on a weekday.

 

It takes another 4 for him to slap Arthur and throw the cake into the kitchen bin. And barely a second for the birthday boy to wail and tell him it was his and that he’s stupid.

 

It takes 2 minutes to beat the child up, but this time it’s 7 because he deserves it, and because the world is a bit wobbly for Mr. Shappey tonight and he can’t quite see if the hazel eyes are brimming with tears or his knees are weak enough. Much less notice the bloodstain matting his only child’s hair.

 

So it takes much, much less —30 seconds, just 30— to push him aside and let him fall down the stairs, crashing into the wall and staining the horrid, dull yellow wallpaper.

 

5 minutes is what it takes 11-year-old Arthur Shappey to stop seizing. It was 3 seconds into the seizure that oxygen wouldn’t reach his ipsilateral forebrain. And those three seconds make him forget that he’s supposed to grow up for the rest of his life.


	2. Goodbye

This is a goodbye, for all the people that have come across my life, that have seen my navy blue uniform and have been proud, surprised, disappointed, disgusted. To the boy who patted my back when I finally managed to get my CPL, because he was part of the day I stopped mulling over these thoughts for a second, and made me pull through another 10 years without re-playing them in my head.

 

Dad, I made it. I made it and it wasn’t enough, and being an electrician wouldn’t be enough, because I can’t fly away and be forgotten like planes are. Another name-less take-off, another mindless disappearance. I mourned you. Don’t let them mourn me.

 

Mum, thank you for all the textbooks and red pens. Thank you for calling on Christmas even though you didn’t quite care or like me.

 

Caitlin, Simon, keep the van pristine, try to keep Icarus Removals alive when I’m not. So many pianos to carry, so many stories to tell, so many one-pound notes on the passenger seat. Give Planey to John, for his birthday, before he realizes why wanting to be a plane is hopeless, and to make sure he doesn’t pass away in a flurry of ink like I am doing, not wondering if somebody would read until the last syllable of the paragraph. Let him fly away from this life.

 

Tell my friends, my only friend, the friend I wish I could outwit, the mother I never had, that it’s not their fault. That this has been here, growing everynight a plastic mattress dipped in an attic, or the fridge didn’t buzz because there was no food inside worth cooling. Tell Arthur otters will be with me, and that we will see every yellow car in the world, and miss his coffees. Tell Douglas to never, ever bet the cheesetray, because he can’t lose, because I’m the only one who wants to loose the brie and fight for the emmental. That, to be honest, I don’t give a toss what he told his wife, that I’m sorry he won’t buy another bottle of brown sauce. Steal the Talisker for the sake of old times, will you? Carolyn, I won’t be able to thank you enough, for making it possible for me to live the dream, for not kicking me out after all the stammering and incompetence. For taking care of me with just musing wasn’t enough. I’m sorry you have to hire another pilot. I’m sorry I applied on the first place just to leave.

 

But I can’t do this. I can’t wake up every morning knowing that all that I’ve ever lived for isn’t enough, that boarding into a plane doesn’t make me feel like the happiest being in the universe anymore. The drag of insults and decieve is as heavy as it can get, and it hurts, and I want to disappear. Don’t come with me. It doesn’t do to fly away dragging memories and pains of the past, unless you want them to pull you down.

Goodbye, thank you, and sorry.

 

 ~~Captain~~ Martin Crieff.


End file.
